the procedure: observations from the french medical system.

If ever you desire an exercise in humility/cultural immersion, I suggest the following: visit a doctor in a country where you don’t speak the language. It’s fascinating, really (if occasionally unnerving), and you’re guaranteed a story. It’s the ever-elusive, authentic cultural experience that we all desire but seldom find when we travel. Upon visiting a doctor in Japan, I had the good fortune of receiving a sponge cleansing from three giggling women and was given a basket of oranges upon leaving. The other day in France, well, let me briefly summarize:

I’ll start with a sweeping generalization: despite what you may have heard about the French to the contrary, they are a remarkably pleasant, friendly, even extroverted people. At least in hospital waiting rooms. When I walk in, everyone – between coughs – greets me. I leave, everyone bids me farewell. Good day. Good weekend. It’s great. Doubting the integrity and nature of the French? Hang out with more influenza patients – they’ll talk your ear off.

Observation #2: Doctor’s offices in France rival Guggenheim exhibitions in style and sophistication. I’m having a conversation with my doctor (well, sort of. I don’t speak French, she doesn’t speak English – lots of gesturing, lots of pointing, some grimacing). She’s an upper-west sidish, neo-marxist, designer non-prescription eyeglasses, haute bourgeois type. I’m having difficulty concentrating: the chair I’m sitting in looks like a Saarinen design and there’s a couch (!) adjacent to me. Instead of the standard medical office pastiche (illustrations of the anatomy of an ear; brochures explaining the importance of testicular self-exams...) there are coordinated color schemes and coffee table books (“The Flemish Masters”; “Expressionism”; “Feng Shue for Medical Practitioners”). I’m starting to doubt whether this woman is a doctor: there’s no white lab jacket in sight, she’s sipping coffee whilst taking notes on an apple laptop and her references to my anatomy sound like art movements: abdomino-pelivenne, sable urinaire, varicocele bilaterale. I need to see a medical doctor, not Juliard faculty.

Observation #3: going to see a doctor abroad is arguably the fastest track to lingual fluency. Before coming to France, I knew approximately four words: oui, eiffel, Zidane, sava. I can now say the following: “Go to the wait room”; “Take off your pants”; “Do you have insurance?”. Actually, I can’t produce them, but if someone says one of the above to me, I know what they mean. Some phrases I’d recommend learning before going abroad: “That hurts”; “Do I have to get completely undressed?”; “Do you have a student discount?”

Observation #4: Being a doctor in France seems really fun. Doctors whistle patriotic-sounding tunes in the hallway; sometimes they exchange kisses (2 in France) with patients; my second doctor smiled a lot and used “voila!” while performing procedures on me that weren’t fit for the feint of heart. Maybe it’s all that wine at lunch; or the complacency and nonchalance that socialism purportedly encourages; or...

Observation #5: the souvenirs. Ooh la la...the souvenirs. For slightly less than the price of an ipod, I got: 2 personalized letters (original signatures), 1 8X10 x-ray, 12 3X5 sonogram images, 1 prescription (on official letterhead) and one unforgettable cultural experience.

Sure, my privacy might be a bit violated. And I’m still not sure what the final diagnosis was. But for a couple of hours, I saw France through the eyes of a local. (and the souvenirs are pretty good...)

-jared.